


Extinct marine animals

by carbonbased000



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Quiz Shows, or something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/pseuds/carbonbased000
Summary: A short one-shot written forandwhatyousaid'sQuarantine-fueled FOB ficathon.AmberleDbsent the prompt: Patrick loves trivia, so he decides to take part in a TV quiz. Pete is the host, and flirts shamelessly for the whole episode.Title is a riff on David Foster Wallace'sLittle Expressionless Animals– another short story about quiz shows. Probably slightly better than this one? But, hey, at least I've never stalked anyone!
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	Extinct marine animals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmberleDb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberleDb/gifts).



The sun is shining through the loft windows – it’s still too bright, according to Joe, so when the guy gets here, they’re going to have to wait for the right light, and Pete is already dreading the small talk. He hopes this one is not too much of a pretentious hipster.

(When he’d pitched this to Gabe over drinks he was kind of joking, but Gabe’s eyes had started twinkling, and he’d started asking increasingly detailed questions, and that was how, one month later, Pete found himself the host of _Bootleg Je*pardy_ , a brand-new web show. Whatever; Gabe works in mysterious ways and has mysterious connections at Vice Video. They made it music-themed, because Pete’s only claim to (relative) fame is as an has-been punk-hardcore scenester. The contestants are musicians, and most of the questions are about music. They left one category as the contestants’ choice, but the people who come on the show usually don’t care, and Pete and Bebe get to choose for them.)

Among things Pete Wentz dislikes most are: making small talk, pretentious hipsters who rattle off Pitchfork 8+ reviewed albums only when asked what they’re listening to, people who don’t move to the side after making their purchase at the grocery store, messages telling him “go to sleep” on social media, his malfunctioning brain-to-mouth filter.

If this were a real quiz show on real television, Pete supposes, he would work on his brain-to-mouth filter a bit more, but as it stands, he knows Bebe is just going to cut anything too egregiously offensive in editing anyway, so he just wings it – and this is why he’s so completely unprepared when the buzzer goes off and Joe goes to let the guy in and the guy walks in and he looks like a fucking _angel_.

“Whoa,” Pete says out loud, and immediately wishes his painted cement floor would swallow him whole. The guy looks at him bemusedly, and Pete tries to recover by standing up and smiling, hopefully like a normal human person, and saying, “I mean, hi, I’m Pete.”

“Yeah, I know,” says the guy. “Patrick,” he offers, and smiles back, and Pete loses his mind again, but only for like five seconds. Ten at the most. That smile is going to fuck up Joe’s lighting way more than the California sun.

“Come into the studio,” he jokes, gesturing back towards the huge leather couch he’s just vacated – the “studio” is the living area of Pete’s loft. Bebe will work her magic in post and add all the fun visual stuff, including the faux-distressed question cards and the jangling garage guitars that make up the show’s soundtrack.

Patrick sits down on the edge of the couch, gingerly, and Pete flops down again and sprawls and smiles at him, just to show him that it’s alright. “How’s the light?” he asks Joe, who bends down to turn on the orange table lamp on the floor before deeming the light “eh, acceptable,” and adding that they should start right away before they lose it, actually, so they do. Joe takes his place behind the camera and calls, “Action!”

Patrick is fidgeting and tapping his foot on the rug. Pete puts on his gameshow host persona, looks to the camera and says, “Welcome to a new episode of Bootleg Je*pardy,” – well, he says the “o” normally, trusting that Bebe will replace it with a rush of static (before they started taping, he’d tried and failed to come up with a way to pronounce an asterisk, and he’s still holding out hope for a stroke of genius, thought he keeps this to himself.)

Pete turns to look at Patrick, who looks at him and starts actually humming the _Jeopardy_ theme song.

Pete tells him, laughing, “Fuck, stop it, we’re gonna get sued!”

Patrick startles, stops humming, and blushes from the root of his strawberry blonde hair to the base of his throat, managing to look even hotter. Pete gives him a once-over, but like, very professionally. Game-show hosts are known to flirt with their contestants, right? This is totally normal. Patrick’s skin, where he’s not blushing fetchingly, is so pale that Pete can’t help but think of porcelain. He’s wearing a short-sleeve denim shirt and black skinny jeans and black half-unlaced boots, and the rolled-up sleeves, paired with the blushing, give Pete hope. Pete needs to get laid. It’s been... a while. _This excessive number of months has passed since Pete Wentz last had sex with somebody else_. No, he’s not telling. Suffice it to say, he’s practically a virgin again. He’s going to blow up as soon as someone looks at him a certain way.

For example, the way Patrick is looking at him right now? That crooked smile, with his bottom lip just caught between his teeth? Yeah, that might work. Pete would really like to see that look in another context. A bedroom context, possibly, or a couch context or a kitchen counter context, Pete has never been particular about these kinds of things and he’s sure as fuck not starting now.

Joe clears his throat.

“Uhm, sorry,” Pete says, smartly, already cringing internally at the way Bebe is going to roast him when she sees the video. He rubs at the back of his neck and looks up at Patrick endearingly (he hopes) through his lashes. “Let’s start!”

Usually people will come in and half-heartedly answer the questions, treating the show as a promotional thing more than a real game – which is fair, it is mostly that, but it’s still nice to see someone not taking this as a complete joke for once. Patrick is serious and focused as he answers the questions on the music categories – “Questionable songs” and “Not in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.” And of course he’s chosen a topic for his third category, and it’s the best ever – “Extinct marine animals.”

Is it too soon for Pete to claim he is in love?

Somehow they’re sitting much closer on the couch than how they started. Pete turns to Patrick and asks him the usual questions about current projects and possible albums/tours coming up. Patrick talks earnestly about the album he’s just finished recording for an indie label and how he played all the instruments himself.

“That’s impressive,” Pete says. “I can only play bass and I’m– not great.”

Patrick just gives him another smile, but it’s less blinding, and Pete notices how tired Patrick looks, and how he’s gripping his knees with his hands so tight that his knuckles have gone white. Pete’s going to suggest taking a break, except Joe looks pointedly at his watch, so Pete says, “Right! Final round,” which is a surprise category, and he says, “This track was the lead single from an album that spent 24 weeks at the top of the Billboard 200 in 1984–”

Patrick seems to relax a little, scoffing and saying, without letting Pete finish, “When Doves Cry, _obviously_. Please.”

It’s not too soon, Pete decides.

They wrap up the episode, and Patrick asks Pete if he can maybe use the bathroom. Joe picks up his stuff and sets off in a hurry after checking his phone. When Patrick comes back from the bathroom, he looks terrible – his eyes are red, his face is damp and his hair is a mess.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry. It’s just–” he trails off, and looks around Pete’s place like he’s looking for something.

“Oh, Joe had to run home,” Pete says. “He’s just had a baby. Well. His wife has. You know.”

“Oh, okay,” Patrick says, and Pete waits for a beat, just to see if maybe he wants to go, if he’s uneasy now that they’re alone, but Patrick just stands there, so Pete goes to the sink in the kitchen corner and fills two glasses with water. The sun is setting and painting the loft in his favorite light, rosey and soft.

“Here,” he says, sliding one glass towards Patrick on the countertop. “Listen, it’s okay. I get nervous too. My brain doesn’t work, like… correctly. So, you know. No judging.”

Patrick looks up, and sighs. “It’s just so stupid,” he says. “I’m supposed to be good at this stuff. I’m a fucking _solo artist_.” He makes air quotes around the last two words. Then he sips at his water, visibly calming down. Pete looks at him and realizes he doesn’t want to have very hot sex with him on his reclaimed teak counter. Well, maybe later, whatever. But for now, he wants to give him a hug, and take him out for dinner, and learn everything about him.

“Maybe you need a band,” he suggests.

“Maybe I do,” Patrick says, and this smile leaves Pete breathless.


End file.
